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Ronni’s eyes flipped to the rearview mirror of the family car, checking on her one year old son, Luke, for the tenth time that minute. So far, so good.
The pattern repeated itself as they made their way to the doctor: Road. Mirror. Road. Mirror. So far, so good.
Behind her flitting eyes, memories of car trips past crept in the back of Ronni’s mind like clairvoyant ghosts: don’t forget what could happen, they whispered.
Mirror. Mirror. Road. Mirror.
The image of her baby turning blue, aspirating and unable to breathe, flashed through her mind. Memories of her husband, Dave, breathing life back into his tiny mouth as they rushed to the hospital.
Road. Mirror. Ambu bag. So far, so good. For now.
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